


A Present from the Past

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-27
Updated: 2008-06-27
Packaged: 2019-01-19 23:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Scourgify, he murmurs and watches the stained nap become white instantaneously. He smirks. His facade is immaculate once again [I love you].





	A Present from the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

** AN: This story conveys no beliefs of my own; only those that I felt fit the protagonist at that specific instant.  **

            _Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh, o’er the fields wego, laughing all the way…  
_ The muggle song rang once again through his ears, but more like a bullet than the soothing melody it is supposed to be. Severus was sitting in his all-time favourite armchair, listening to the residents of Spinner’s End prepare joyfully for Christmas. It was the time of the year during which it became an actual street of its own, shining with tree lights and hidden under innovative decorations rather than a somber and shaky corner barely visible between two prosperous and healthy muggle quarters. Despite – no, _because of_ the bright and carefree atmosphere having taken over the Muggle world as much as Wizardkind, the month of December only seemed to distance him even more than usual from the outside world. Far from being tempted by the idea of altering any of his morose habits because the most popular book ever written _produced out of thin air_ states that exactly a thousand-and-something years ago, a wine-sipping arrogant fool who claimed himself the son of God and future of the human race was born from a virgin, he preferred to remain calmly seated in his green armchair and finish off this day as any other with activities a bit more worthy than hanging white puppets with wings off the top of triangular-shaped trees.             

            Sipping his coffee _I didn’t know coffee burned your throat_ and scratching out a paragraph of some pupil’s pop-quiz he had given his fifth grade potions classes on the Friday preceding the holiday, he calmly waits for the sun to set in order to get the sleep _well why don’t you already go to sleep now it’s not like curtains are a muggle invention_ he very well deserved after six months of futile attempts to convey an infinitesimal amount of information to a bunch of worthless dunderheads whose brains somehow seem incapable to retain, let alone process, even the most obvious piece of information for a period longer than a few hours. _”…since one of the essential ingredients in many strengthening potions is crumbled horns of a Bilbot, the only commonly used…“_ Sighing, he gives up on marking a paper belonging to … Ms. Hanwire, who apparently cannot even distinguish a Bilbot, which is a _broom_ brand for Merlin’s sake, and not even a high quality one - its balance skills leave to desire - from a Bilmod, highly rare creatures considered among the purest, second only to unicorns. 

           Severus evenly places the feather back into its wooden stand and the parchment on top of the pile, uncrosses his legs, pushes back his chair and stands up. He scrutinizes his impeccably organized living room, from the bookshelves behind the table to the potions ingredient cupboard facing them and to the narrow stairs, before abruptly turning his head in direction of his bedroom. He is dizzy. A dizziness that, he is certain, has as much to do with medical issues as his inability to spend this evening in his potions lab does: not much at all. The perfect brewing of even the simplest potion requires not only his absolute focus but also his entire skill and natural passion. Tonight therefore, such a meticulous activity is unthinkable: he is certain of being unable to offer it his entire focus – and preparing a potion without doing so flawlessly is not only a waste of time and ingredients but also and especially a self-inflicted insult to his talent. Dedicating his entire focus to this mesmerizing art temporarily prevents any thought not strictly related to his cauldron from invading his mind: it means relief. And for once, although he is not ready to admit it to himself, this relief is not welcome. He knows it is wrong: he is beginning to sense a growing crack in the mask that hides it all, all of which he seeks relief. And although he is alone and will remain so for the following week and a half _unless the Dark Lord calls his faithful and not-so-faithful servants_ he cannot allow this mask to fall because it would mean so much more around him falling, it would mean his reputation falling along with what he has left of self-respect _stop this stop stop it you are going to fall down your own stairs if you don’t pay attention to where you are stepping_ _or you will walk into a door does this excuse not sound somewhat familiar,_ hah, this stair-business would be ridiculous to the point of funny since he has saved famous Potter from falling off his own enchanted broom, because he has once fallen for her years ago but is falling again and again and he is –

           SMACK. The sound of his palm smashing against the door handle finally puts a stop his spiraling thoughts. Breathing heavily but regularly, coordinating his every body part to avoid any of them giving into the temptation that would destroy his ma -

             BOOM, he shuts the door open. They should invent a new branch of Magic: Egolumancy, or the defense of _internal_ penetrating thoughts since Occlumency does not seem too bothered with that particular type of attack. And yet, those thoughts can be so much more disturbing and dangerous than Legilimancy _you think back to this the next time the Dark Lord tries that on you_ precisely because there is no form of defense, because is no opponent – or rather, the opponent is yourself. You either lose, or you lose. He smirks at the idea of having to teach yet another highly difficult skill to the Potter brat on Dumbledore’s order _request_. The corners of his lips twitch a little more at the thought that it might not prove such a difficult task – after all, the boy hardly seems to harbor any thoughts, and certainly not enough of them for a mental duel in any shape of form _well maybe he’s lucky and you’re jealous it wouldn’t be the first time don’t you remember when Li –_

            POOST, he thumps his fist against the table and fixes his eyes on a spot amongst ten thousands on the monotonous wall and tears his eyelids wide open and presses his lips together with a strength that seems to have been extracted from his knees. The sun has still not begun to set. He is not sure of how much longer he is able to resist. He looks around and realizes that he is standing in his kitchen. Although he has already eaten dinner – but that was several hours ago – he takes out some whole wheat bread and cuts a few pieces off and calmly covers two sides with a thin layer of butter and puts a bit of cheese between them, not trusting himself with a wand _oh but you trust yourself with a knife where did your common sense go_. Then he sits down and enjoys his first bite: he has always preferred having meals on his own. For some reason, the company of others while eating bothers him– bothers him more than usual that is. He takes a second bite. Unfortunately, as a teacher at Hogwarts he is required to attend every meal in the Great Hall with a thousand foolish and hormone-lead teenagers and around a dozen staff members, some of whom might have proven respectable at the very least, but are more unpleasant than even Longbottom and all of the Weasleys combined in the sense that they actually try conversing with him, and even expect regular answers _well it wouldn’t be a conversation otherwise would it_ in return. He takes a third bite and wonders whether he should try to me more social, at least to someone like Minerva or Filius who are discrete and rational unlike Sibyl or the giant. He takes another bite and throws the sandwich on the plate _where do you see a plate you haven’t bothered taking one_ , hurries to a door, crosses a room, climbs some stairs and enters the attic. Rummaging without hesitation through boxes and boxes of worthless antiquity, he finds what he is looking for.    

         He is kissing her. On the cheek. And her mouth is smiling because she is posing, but her eyes are laughing, laughing so hard they seem almost shut and yet the green spark is clearly visible, whether through her eyelids or her iris or his imagination he does not know. Smooth, black hair mingles with shining red curls, down to her right hip where the black is no longer interfering. The nose seems too big due to the close perspective and each freckle surrounding it seems disproportioned. Her dark red summer robes expose the white skin under her neck, her shoulders are so elegant and thin and fragile and the irony strikes him because she is the strongest witch he has ever known _wanted to know._ The background of the picture is blurry. 

            It has not been long – merely a year – but her beauty stuns him again. He was not expecting anything else. Her happiness radiates, so present it is almost tangible. He reaches out, finally immersed by the thoughts which he permanently avoids for vital protection, he is swimming in them, lost in them and whoever saw Severus Snape right now would swear that this is neither the Potions Master nor the Spy nor the Death Eater because without his proud posture, without his smooth, firm walk, without his emotionless face and unwavering mask he is nothing like any of those characters. His chin has dropped a few centimeters, his chest has collapsed and his back bowed a little, he is sitting but not on a chair and his eyes are constantly altering, for once failing to be the guardians of what lies beyond them but reflecting it all too clearly _traitors_.

            Lily Evans had given this picture to him during the Christmas holiday of their fourth year. A friend of hers named Lynda had taken the picture eleven days earlier, after their final mid-term practical test in Herbology that had taken place in the afternoon. She had apologized for not framing her Christmas present before giving it to him, but as soon as she gotten it, she said, she had run over to the _our_ lake and handed it to him. He had said it was beautiful _you’re beautiful_ but had forgotten to assure her that an apology was not needed because he could not care less about the frame. He had said thank you and kissed her on the cheek again, and she had smiled although she had not laughed like on the picture but that did not make her any less stunning.

            His favorite present and the only one he remembered: nothing’s as mean as giving a little child something useful for Christmas. Oh yes, how candid he had been at the age of fourteen: he had not realized that what he had loved back then he would hate now, because it hurts so much and makes him too human, makes him a target to all the feelings he permanently represses to seek safety from himself. Haunting memories, terrifying present, uncertain future. Looking at her _at us_ makes him vulnerable to all the emotions he cannot allow himself to feel for fear to collapse under their weight and pressure _and longing_. This year he has once again failed to resist the temptation, and now he is paying the consequences for his weakness _failure._ Fear is paralyzing him; anger is exploding in him as hatred erupts; solitude is suffocating him, shame is invading; jealousy is crushing him; regret is hurting him but remorse is torturing him; craving is consuming him while guilt is tearing him apart. He does not think he can bear it but he knows from experience that he can, he must. Regain control _regain control now_. It is not leaving _regain control now_. Resist _._ Fight it. Harder to fight than anything he is used to. Takes so long _coward_. He’d love a Cruciatus. Everything suddenly goes blank.         

    He now feels empty. He delicately slides the tip of his fingers over the photograph. He places the picture back in the bottom of the box, glances at it once again _I miss you_ before refilling the box with the items he had previously thrown out. He carefully but rigidly closes the box so he is not tempted to open it again _you don’t want any dust_ soon _._ After leaving the attic, he walks back to the kitchen without noticing that his half-eaten sandwich has stained the nap, and into the living room where he collapses into the dark green armchair: his entire energy, or what is left of it, is needed to rebuild himself. Strength and courage; selflessness, control. The sun has finally set. Progressively his eyelids become steadier and his back straighter, his shoulders lower and his chest swells a little. _Scourgify_ , he murmurs and watches the stained nap become white instantaneously. He smirks. His facade is immaculate once again _I love you_. 


End file.
